More Moments
by Purplefluffychainsaw
Summary: Moments between France and England. Chapter fifteen: France and England sign an agreement to work together. Chapter sixteen: France interferes with England's embroidery. Chapter seventeen: For Armistice day. Lest we forget.
1. Hangover

"F-fuck… My head…"

France smirks, and waits. Beside him, England shifts, and then – finally – notices the Nation lying on top of the blankets.

"France? What the hell are you doing here? Get out of my bed you, you --" Whatever insult England was intended is replaced by a groan, and the Nation winces as a wave of nausea passes over him.

France continues to smile smugly as he tugs the displaced blankets back up around England's chest. "Now, now, _mon cher_, is that anyway to treat your saviour?"

"Piss off, frog."

He laughs outright, leaning forward to kiss his neighbour's forehead, though he is rewarded by an irritated swat.

"You undressed me too! You pervert!"

"_Non_, you did that yourself. It was all I could do to make you keep them on on the way back last night."

"Liar!"

England shifts to try and push France away, but another wave of nausea hits, and he gags, jumping out of bed and into the en suite just in time. France isn't far behind him, and he rubs England's back soothingly as the Nation leans over the toilet, brushing blonde locks out of his eyes and off his sweaty forehead. "You never learn, do you, _mon petit chou_?" He chides him playfully.

England swats at him again, glaring up at him briefly, before he retches again.

When his stomach has settled a little, France helps him back to bed, a strong arm around the smaller Nation's waist, and the lack of complaints tells him just how bad England is feeling. As he pulls the blankets back up around him, England realises belatedly that France is still wearing last night's suit, although the jacket and tie have been lost somewhere.

"Go back to sleep, _mon cher_."

England groans, still feeling queasy, and pulls the blankets over his head. "Didn't I tell you to piss off?"

France just laughs again, and sits down on the edge of the bed, stroking England's hair soothingly while he waits for the younger Nation to doze off.

Once he's sure that he's asleep, he goes down the corridor to shower in the main bathroom, and changes into clean clothes. Feeling better (he didn't exactly go lightly on the wine last night either), he checks in again on England before heading down to the kitchen, a towel draped over his shoulders catching the drips from his hair.

France smiles when he spots a packet in the fridge and pulls it out. He knows that England doesn't drink coffee, and it's his own favourite. He puts the instant that he had assumed had been left behind by America back in the cupboard, and sets about making breakfast for the two of them.

When he cheerfully waltzes back into the bedroom and pulls open the curtains, England throws a pillow at him, exclaiming an inaudible insult into the pillow he's just buried his face in. France laughs at him again, and pulls it away, perching on the bedside. "Come, _mon cher_, we have things to do today."

"Fuck _off_, you wine bastard." At the thought of wine, England groans, turning away from France and attempting to burry himself in the blankets.

Leaning over to the tray he earlier balanced on the bedside table, France picks up a glass and two paracetamol pills, offering them to England, who all but snatches them away.

"You're a git, you know that?" England complains as he sits up, cautiously shuffling to one side to allow France a space on the bed and taking the tray from him to balance it in his lap.

"And I love you too." France replies with a smile as he takes his plate off the tray and settles down beside England.

"Besides, everyone knows that you're meant to have a fry up to cure a hang over, not this crepe shit."

France wrinkles his nose in disgust, and takes a delicate sip of his coffee before replying. "The fruit will do you good, _mon cher_."

England grumbles, but starts to eat, drawing the tray closer to himself. France must have gone out for ingredients because he's sure that there weren't half of these fruits in his fridge last night.

"Feeling better now?" France asks when England finally pushes the tray away and leans back against the bedhead.

England grunts a yes, and then sighs and closes his eyes, his mug of tea resting on his stomach, both hands curled around it.

"Good. You need to shower." England opens one eye to glare at France. "You stink of sick." France continues as though unaware that England was very visibly wishing him dead.

"Bastard."

"It's only the truth, _mon ami_. You can hardly turn up to the meeting like this."

England groans again. Oh, yes. The meeting. Right.

Sighing, he dumps the tray on France's lap, then pushes himself up. He pauses to finish his tea, then stumbles back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

France has just finished clearing away in the kitchen when England finally reappears, towel drying his hair. "There. Now you almost look human." France says with a dry laugh.

England growls, squaring his shoulders, and drops his towel on France's lap as he passes him to get to the second cup of tea that France has prepared for him. While he drinks it, France fusses over him like a mother hen, straightening his shirt and tie, and pulling his fingers through England's unruly hair in an attempt to tame it. England endures the fuss while he drinks his tea, and then steps smartly out of France's reach and brushes down his jacket.

"Come on then, you bastard. I guess we'd better get this out of the way." He brushes his hand through his hair, undoing France's attempts to tame it, and France laughs again.

"Aiya, _mon ami_, what am I going to do with you?"

"Piss off and leave me alone?"

Their footsteps echo in the hall, and as England opens the door to let them out, France sneaks a kiss onto his cheek, and then darts away. "You wish, _mon petit chou_."

"Bastard! Come back here!" The words are shouted, but France is laughing as he keeps just out of England's reach, letting him chase him all the way there.


	2. Rain

The rain is only getting heavier as France waits at the door impatiently. He knocks again, rapping on the wooden door with the back of his knuckles and cursing England for not having installed a doorbell. Stepping back and looking up at the dark skies, he sighs and shakes his head. It seems like even the country is in mourning.

And then the door opens, and the country _is_ mourning. England's face is a mess of tears and snot, and pain. France waits for the inevitable insult, but instead England flings himself at him, burying his face in the blonde's shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably.

Shocked, France hesitates for a moment, before curling his arms around England and drawing him closer. England wraps his hands into France's shirt, clenching and pulling at it as he weeps, and France moves one hand to stroke his hair, rocking him soothingly as he whispers to him in French like he did when they were children. France wonders if the Nation is mourning one queen or two – or perhaps he is mourning all of them: all of the rulers that he's seen come and go in his immortal life. France wasn't there after Elizabeth – the first one, that is – died, but he still saw pain in England's eyes if she was mentioned, and understood.

Eventually, the sobs slow, and England begins to calm, his breath ragged on France's shoulder. They are both drenched now, but the rain is finally showing signs of letting up. France gently leads England inside, up to the bathroom, leaving his shoes at the door. As the bath runs, he starts to strip England, tenderly unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, then kneeling to help him out of his trousers and boxers. England doesn't complain at the treatment: he doesn't say anything, and he's still shaking slightly.

When France has stripped himself, he helps England into the warm water, settling him in his lap and letting him collapse against him, back to chest. France goes back to soothing England's wild locks with his hand, his other arm wrapped over England's hip. The other Nation seems to finally relax a little, curling in closer and twisting so that his shoulder rests on France's chest. The silence between them is comfortable, and France holds England close while the water restores heat to their cold limbs until it starts to cool. Then England acts, lifting his head from France's shoulder and leaning forward to wash dried salt from his cheeks. He stands up after that, careful not to stand on France's legs, and while he fetches towels from the cupboard France washes tear stains from his shoulder.

When France takes his towel from England it looks as though the younger Nation is about to say something, but whatever it was he bites it back and looks away as he wraps a towel around his waist.

France's clothes are left in a sodden pile on the bathroom floor as he follows England into his bedroom, and he watches while England pulls on tartan pyjamas and then crosses over to his chest of drawers. After some rummaging he pulls out a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms and a tank top that look big enough to fit the broader Nation, and France almost breaks the silence with a complaint, but in the end pulls them on anyway.

"Tea?" England asks, suddenly, his voice hoarse from crying.

France jumps, the sudden noise startling, and looks at England with a question in his blue eyes.

"Do you want some tea? Well, coffee I assume, but I'm going to put the kettle on." Aside from his rough voice, England sounds normal: there are no tears in his voice, and the sadness that he cried out on France's shoulder has either gone or is being carefully suppressed.

It takes a moment for France to find his voice after the long silence. "Coffee, then." He says, and it's followed by an uncomfortable pause as unasked questions hang in the air between them.

England clears his throat uncomfortably. "Come on, then." Abruptly he turns, leaving the room, expecting France to follow, which he does.

France seats himself at the kitchen table while England busies himself with the kettle. He is purposely not looking at him, France thinks, as he watches him. Only when two mugs have been filled and England takes the seat beside him do green eyes look up to meet blue.

As France reaches out to take his mug, he lets his hand brush against England's. "_Merci_."

"Hmm? Oh. That's okay." England has curled his hands around his mug, and the silence becomes oppressive again as the two Nations stare into their cups.

"What will happen now?" France asks, eventually, falteringly.

"Oh, Charles will probably offer the throne to William after all that fuss with Camilla, but--"

France cuts in. "I mean, what will you do?"

England shrugs, and for a moment sadness reappears in his eyes. "I'll be fine." He pauses, and then adds, "I always am."

France reaches out and puts a hand on top of England's. For a moment, England looks at it, and then he twists his hand to lace his fingers with France's.

They sit like that until their drinks are cold, watching the rain – now a steady drizzle – trickle down the windows.

England breaks the silence again. "Stay with me, tonight."

France is surprised. He's slept in England's bed on countless occasions, but not for hundreds of years has he been asked to. He looks at England, and is offered a soft smile, which France returns, drawing England into a hug. England buries his face into the damp curls of France's hair, and they are briefly still, until England pulls away and gently tugs France up and out of his chair with their linked hands.

In the morning, when France wakes up, England has already left, and the bed is cold, but he is not surprised. When he goes, he leaves a single red rose on the kitchen table.


	3. Cold

France struggles to sit up right. His throat is burning, and his head swimming. He's vaguely aware that his beautiful red silk sheets have been ruined from sweat and tossing and turning, but there's nothing he can do about that. Cautiously, he starts to move, rolling his aching body out to the edge of the bed, slowly swinging his legs out, and then –

"What do you think you're doing, you idiot?" Strong arms catch him as he sways and falls, and England holds him close for a moment before struggling to pick him up, huffing as he does so. "You're heavy, frog." He complains as he manhandles him back into bed.

"_Your hands are cold._" France finds himself muttering in French as he looks up at England, struggling to focus on his features.

"_No, you're just hot."_ England switches to French as well, and although France hasn't heard him use it for a long time, it seems like the language is still familiar to the other blonde. He draws the duvet up over France's shoulders, and leans forward to wipe sweat off his brow, and it feels both comfortable and strange to France for him to be this tender, even if his words are as brusque as ever.

Feverishly, France struggles to sit up again, remembering his original purpose. "_A drink. Water._"

England puts his hands on France's shoulders and pushes him back down, and France has no strength to resist. "I'll be back in a moment." He promises.

France blacks out again, and the next thing he knows England is sitting behind him, pulling him into his lap so that France can lean against his chest to drink. A glass is pressed to his lips, and France drinks thirstily. He whimpers when England moves the glass away again, a dribble of cool water escaping past his lips and down his chin. "Not so fast, you twit. Do you want to choke?" Rough fingers wipe the tickle of water away, and then the glass is returned, and France tries to drink it again, before checking himself and sipping instead.

As England helps him to lie back down again, France shivers at the cool touch of his hands and winces when he moves away. "You know, this is why you shouldn't run around like the twat that you are when you catch a cold. Look at you, you're a mess."

France doesn't have the energy to reply, but he misses the touch of England's hands, and vaguely reaches out for him. "See what I mean?" England adds, but in a softer tone, and France feels the movement of the mattress as England sits back down beside him and takes his hand. "_You're silly_."

A chuckle forces its way up through France: the insult sounds ridiculous and unnatural in French, but somewhere along the line it turns into a hacking cough, and then one turns into many. England supports him while he struggles to breathe, gently rubbing his back and speaking softly to him, though all France can hear is gibberish. Slowly, the coughs fade away, and he's able to catch his breath again, but England doesn't stop rubbing his back.

England helps him to another drink, and then lays him back down. "_Go back to sleep_." He suggests, running his fingers through France's curly hair, and France can't resist the pull for much longer. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, his ragged breaths finally calming and slowing.

He wakes to find his hand held tight in England's hand, and his hair being soothed absent mindedly. His head feels clear for the first time in a few days, though he is aware that his body is still aching and hot. "And we were all worried when we didn't hear from you." England is saying, softly, and France doesn't give any sign that he is awake, hoping to hear the rest. "I remembered that coughing fit you hand when you came to help me on Monday, and, dear Gods, what where you _thinking_! You could have killed yourself, working like that when you were ill. Next time, don't be so fucking stupid, and look after yourself for once." His voice softens, and his hands still for a moment. "We would have missed you."

"Why, _Angleterre_, I didn't know you cared." France finally opens his eyes, his voice rough.

"You… you fucking frog!" England leaps away from him, smacking the side of his head. "I thought you were asleep."

"But you were saying such lovely things, _mon ami_." France attempts to sit up, and finds that he still doesn't have the strength, so is forced to look at England with wide eyes until the other Nation gives in and helps him.

"Yeah, well, you weren't meant to be listening, git." England holds his wrist to France's forehead, checking his temperature, and his voice is gentle again. "How do you feel?"

France shifts a little bit, thinking it over. "Better." He answers, as he purposely leans into England, resting his head on the smaller Nation's shoulder. "Where you really worried?"

"What do you think, you tosser?"

"That's not an answer." France nuzzles into England's neck, and is pushed away – although not hard enough that he loses his position against England's side. "Ah, so you do care."

"Yeah, well." England huffs, and France knows that under any other circumstance he would have folded his arms and looked away. As it is, with one arm around France's waist, there's not much he can do. "You're useful. To complain at. But more annoying than useful."

France laughs, and nuzzles England's neck again, and England sighs and gives in, letting him. "_Mon cher_, that was almost a confession."

England growls and grounds his teeth, his hand on France's hip tightening around the taunt flesh almost painfully. "Git face." He growls, but doesn't deny it.

"_Mon petit chou_."

"Frog."

"_Mon coeur_."

"Wine freak."

"_Angleterre_."

England pauses, and then smiles softly. He kisses France's forehead before replying. "France."


	4. Strikes

**AN**: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favourited or added this to their watch. You guys make me so happy!

Also, France might be slightly OOC towards the end of this one. :/ I'm not sure about it. Rule of Cute won out, I'm afraid.

* * *

As soon as the phone rings, France knows who it will be, and he picks it up cautiously, as though it would bite.

It doesn't, but thankfully he's smart enough to hold it a little way from his ear, and England all but screams at him. "You fucking bastard! Why the hell didn't you warn me? There's traffic backed up practically all the way to London, and my Boss is yelling at me like it's my fault!"

France sighs, and rolls his eyes, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear so that he can go back to signing papers. "_Mon cher_, you exaggerate, it's not been long enough--"

"I'm not joking, France." England practically spits out the name, and France can imagine the look of fury on his face. "You'd better bloody well do something to clean up the mess, and fast."

"I'm already on the way, _Angleterre_." France promises, rolling his eyes. Perhaps if it had been a better day he would have made a comment about there being less strikes if Dover wasn't such a disgusting place to be coming in and out of every day, or about how the traffic wouldn't be backed up if they could come up with a better plan than parking the lorries on the motorway, but as it was he didn't have the energy to fight with England.

"You'd better be." England growls, and then cuts him off. France blinks once or twice, listening to nothing, before his sighs again and he ends the call from his side, tossing the phone to one side.

England calls back a couple of hours later when France is in the middle of talks. He excuses himself as he answers, but ignores England's complaints until he's out in the corridor where he can't be overheard.

"_Angleterre._" He says, and his voice is so cold that even England falls quiet. "Not only am _very_ busy at the moment, you have just interrupted talks. Now, I assume that you want your motorways clear this week. Unless you intend to do something about it yourself, which you never do, I suggest that you shut the hell up for once and leave me in peace for one day so that I can try to deal with this."

There is silence on the other end for a second, and then England starts to speak, but France ends the call, switching his phone off and leaning heavily against the wall. He closes his eyes and gathers his strength, before forcing a smile onto his face and going back into the meeting room to start over.

It is only later, when the talks are finally over and an agreement has been settled, that France realises what he said, and to England of all Nations. The blonde curses, slapping a hand to his head and calling himself an idiot. Of all of his neighbours, England is the one who will not understand the pressure that he is under at the moment, the one who will sulk for _years_ about a few cross words.

Hastily, France turns his phone back on, half expecting to see missed calls from England, but there are none. He dials from memory, and is greeted by a pre-recorded message telling him that the phone that he is trying to reach is currently unavailable.

Swearing again, France ends the call, and sinks back into his seat. He holds his head, trying to gather his thoughts, and then attempts to call again, but gets the same message.

There's not much he can do. One of his Boss's ministers has just poked his head round the door to ask if he's ready to go back now, and France is all too aware of the paperwork waiting for him on his desk when he gets home, of the meetings and calls that are lined up for the next two weeks, how every day more and more come through.

Forcing another smile, he follows the man back to the car, and tries England again only once more, before he goes back to the papers in his briefcase.

It's almost nine in the evening when he is disturbed by a knock on the door. "_Go away_." France calls out, irritated, but the door opens anyway, and France swings to face the intruder, only to come face to face with a smirking England.

"_Angleterre!_" France jumps up.

"I do wish you'd stop calling me that." England says, but his eyes are still smiling. "Come on, we're going out."

France glances back at his paperwork, and hesitates, and England laughs. "Don't worry about that, I spoke to your Boss."

"Why?"

"Because you sounded like you were getting ready to kill someone, and I didn't want it to be me. Besides, having you owe me one is always useful."

France finally laughs, feeling a little bit of the pressure in his shoulders ease. "So, _mon cher_, what do you have planned?"

England clicks his fingers, and looks smugger than ever. "Well, I've just come out of a meeting where our Bosses signed an agreement to rearrange this whole ferry business. Honestly, it just kills our system every time your guys decide to strike, so we decided that it was time to sort the whole mess out. And on the way out, I might have mentioned to your Boss that you were having the day off tomorrow for your Grandmother's funeral."

France chuckles at this, and shakes his head. Of all the transparent excuses…

"So. Since you probably haven't eaten today, we're going out to get you fed, and then we're going to get utterly trashed, and in the morning we'll probably wake up in the same bed, _again_, and I'll complain at you for being a bastard, and you'll cook me breakfast, but – and this is the important bit, France, so you'd better pay attention, _you will still owe me one_."

England looks so pleased with himself, France laughs as he rushes forward to grab the smaller Nation into a bone-crushing hug.

"Hey, get off me, wine freak!" England attempts to push him away, but France just laughs more and hugs him tighter.

"You, _mon petit chou_, are an idiot." France proclaims, softly. "With the most extraordinary eyebrows, and the most awful sense of fashion in the world, and the worst cook I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"Yeah, well, look who's talking. Loose tosser, who'll flirt with anything on two legs, and has no respect for personal space." England is still attempting to squirm out of France's grasp.

France ruffles England's hair before letting him escape. "_Merci, mon ami_."

"Stop being such a grateful bastard, it doesn't suit you." England checks his watch. "We'd better get a move on, or we'll be late for the dinner reservation."

France grins at him. "Lead the way, _cheri_."

"Oh, do shut up."


	5. Opera

**AN**: Thank you again to everyone who reviewed, favourited or added this to their watch. I appreciate it!

* * *

England looks up from the newspaper as he hears footsteps on the stairs. "Finally ready, frog—what on Earth do you think you're wearing?" His mouth catches up to his eyes belatedly, taking in France's untucked shirt and undone tie. "I hope you don't think you're going out like that."

France rolls his eyes as he stops at England's side. "It's called dishevelled, and you should try it sometime. When you're not drunk, that is."

A splutter of irritance and rage escapes from England's lips as he stands up and starts to rearrange France's clothes, roughly tucking his shirt in and tying his tie tightly around his neck.

"There's no need to strangle me, _cheri_." France chuckles as he loosens the tie a little.

"Don't be so sure." England mutters, darkly as he smoothes wrinkles out of his own jacket. "We'd better get moving: we're going to be late thanks to your beauty regime."

"Something that wouldn't do you any harm, _mon ami_." France quips back as the pair make their way to the door. "You might stop scaring people."

Growling again, as he locks the door behind them, England glares at France's back. "Bastard. Remind me again why I'm taking you to the opera?"

"Because I'm an elegant, beautiful man whom you cannot resist, mon cher. Oh, and your Boss might have told you to."

If anything, England's face darkens further as he angrily shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "Smug git." He mutters a little half heartedly, but France just laughs and pats his shoulder.

The limo is waiting for them outside, and for once France notes, it isn't raining. Perhaps summer is on it's way after all, he thinks as he slides into the limo, England following with a little less grace.

"Why did he ask us to come, anyway?" France asks, something that had been annoying him since England had phoned him two weeks ago.

England gives a shrug. "He's new, he doesn't really understand what he's doing, let alone us." France notices the irritated tone – not the type of irritation that was reserved for himself, but a proper, deeper sort that he hadn't fallen on the wrong side of for a long time. "He thinks that he can't arrange things for ourselves, so when he invites your Boss over to 'get to know him better'" (France guesses that he was quoting from his tone), "he wants 'England and France to be friendly too'. I, of course, told him he was being a twat and there was no way I would ever be friendly with you."

"Aw, _petit chou_, you wound me." France says, with one hand on his heart – not that England could see in the semi darkness of the limo. He knows as well as England does that there is no way that England would speak like that to his Boss. To France, yes, but England is too respectful, too much of a Gentleman to speak that way to a superior. France is just an equal.

"Don't act like you have a heart, frog."

There is a long silence after England speaks, and eventually the younger Nation starts to shift a little uncomfortably. France smirks, knowing that England can't see it, and waits patiently to see whether he will take the comment back or not. Finally, England reaches out tentatively, but as he does, he brushes his hand against France's hip.

"You bastard, you untucked it again!"

France lets out an exclamation of surprise and amusement as he is forcibly grabbed again, England forcing his shirt back into his trousers, just in time. He's still evening France's trousers out (and France is trying not to think about rough hands against his hips) when the car rolls to a stop. England forces France to stay still for a moment longer until he's satisfied, then he nods to the driver, and the doors are opened for them.

Both Nations slide out calmly, ignoring the press who seem to be snapping pictures because they're there rather than for any real interest in them. The door to number ten is opened for them, and England lets France enter ahead of him.

Their Bosses are making uneasy small talk in one of the reception rooms, and France sees the grateful look on his Boss' face as they enter, interrupting them. England immediately strides forward, taking France's Boss by the hand, and greeting him in perfect French, which makes France smile. He knows England, and he knows that he has been practising that greeting. His smile only grows wider when he catches England's secretive, smug look towards his Boss.

Well, well, well, England hates his new Boss. France slides over to the man elegantly, and lets his greeting kisses linger on his cheeks for just a second longer than they should do, while he falteringly attempts to recreate England's greeting. France simply smiles, and nods. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, _mon ami_." He can feel England's glare on the back of his neck, and he holds back a chuckle.

"Well, I think we should get moving, don't you?" England's Boss asks, hesitantly, and his poor, unnoticed PA is quick to agree. The four are sheparded out, back towards the howling press, and France and England are quick to slip into the relative privacy of the limo while their Bosses are forced to pose for the cameras.

"Why didn't you tell me that you dislike him, _cheri_?" France asks, finally letting out his amusement in a hearty chuckle.

"I do not!" England makes a good show of being affronted, but France isn't naïve enough to fall for it. He pets the other Nation's knee, and England sighs and sags in his seat, giving up. "He's so young, he has no idea what he's doing." He complains, but his rant is quickly cut off by the two humans, who have escaped from the press, climbing into the car with them.

The short journey to the theatre is punctuated by nervous conversation, mostly provided by England's Boss. France begins to see what England means – the man is naïve, and far too young. Every time France replies with something personal, the man looks at him as though trying to remember that France is a person, and by the time they arrive, France is glad to escape into the flashing of lights again.

As they slip into the theatre, England presses close. "You bastard." He hisses, and then tugs on France's once more untucked shirt – it's far too late for him to tuck it back in this time.

France grins. "Third time lucky." He says, knowing that he has won.


	6. Bonfire

AN: Thank you again to everyone who added or favourited or commented on this. I love you all!

I'm not sure how English specific this one is... If I've not explained something, do feel free to ask. I know I made up the prices for the drinks (student prices =/= normal prices), but I did actually do research for something vaguely appropriate for France to drink! XD

* * *

France eventually found England leaning on the barrier, pint clutched in one gloved hand. He pushed his way through the milling crowd, ignoring the bitter half-whispered comments of a mother trying to get her children to the front, and positioned himself beside the other Nation. England was looking out into the darkness of the field, watching the distant torch lights with a soft smile on his lips.

"Not going to Battersea this year?" France asks as he takes England's glass from his unresisting hand and takes a swig. He winces as the beer hits the back of his throat and quickly hands it back – England's beer isn't the best way to start the evening.

"Well, if you really want to see a poncy show on the theme of 'love' we can relocate." England replies, before downing what's left of the glass and straightening up.

France eyes England. "Love? What does that have to do with someone attempting to blow up your houses of parliament?"

England shrugs. "You tell me. Anyway, I'm showing support for the local community, aren't I?"

Looking at England, France realises that he is already well on the way to being drunk. He wonders if it's the memories from all those years ago, celebrating the explosion that never was, or if it's in advance of next weeks Remembrance Day events. The beginning of November has never been England's best period, especially with the rise of Halloween in America. France knows that America was here a few days ago, and perhaps that is part of the reason that England is currently leading him back to the clubhouse, making a beeline for the bar. "You don't even play rugby these days." France says.

"If I had more time I might. And then I might play here! 'S only a mile or so from my house, after all."

France briefly looks down at his watch. It isn't even seven yet, he realises after a moment to work out that he hasn't put it back yet. If he'd known England was going to start this early he would have had a second (and possibly third or fourth) glass of wine on the train over. As it is, he feels that he has a way to catch up, and so pushes in front of him at the bar, leaning on one elbow and grinning at the woman behind it in a way to grab her attention almost instantly. She finishes pouring a pint, hands it over, and then steps over to them. "What can I get you?"

France almost asks for wine list, and then remembers that this is an English pub (or to be precise, even worse: a sports club bar), and that he needs to be well on his way to drunk if he wants to actually be able to drink the wine from here. He casts an expert eye over the bottles at the back of the bar, thinking quickly. "A double shot of Glenfiddich, _s'il vous plait_."

One of her eyebrows shoots up at the French, and she gives a girly giggle as she turns to get his drink. France smirks to himself as he retrieves his wallet, and England just rolls his eyes as he squeezes his way to a gap beside the taller Nation. "Here you go. Anything else?"

France glances at England, who takes his cue. "Another pint of Fuller's, please."

"Righto."

As soon as she moves off, France downs his drink, and when England looks at him, he shrugs. "_Mon cher_, you're, what, five units ahead of me? Give me a chance to catch up."

"That'll be six quid fifty." The woman is back before England can reply, and France promptly pulls a ten pound note out of his wallet.

As she gets his change and England's drink, England replies. "Four."

"Here you are, gents. Enjoy the show!"

France leans forward and slides the fist full of change into England's pocket. With one hand full, the other Nation can only nudge him with his elbow and frown. "What was that for?"

"I hardly want your coins getting muddled up in my wallet."

"Oh, not this again." England takes a sip of his drink. "We'll switch to Euros over my cold, dead body."

France laughs and pets his shoulder. "Of course, _mon cher_."

There's no hope of them getting back to the front of the crowd, so France and England hold back against the club house building where quite a few of the men seem to have gathered, drinks in one hand, cigarette in the other. France can smell the smoke, and for a moment he wishes he hadn't given up, but he reminds himself that he must move with the times, and a glance at England tells him that the other Nation is probably thinking something along the same lines.

England checks his watch. "Should start soon."

"I thought these things were always late?"

"Yes. They are."

France checks his own watch and sees that England is right: it's coming up to ten minutes past.

A hush starts from the front of the crowd and works its way backwards. The children pressed up against the barrier have obviously seen movement out at the back of the field, and know that things are starting. England gathers his jacket tighter around him, and closes his eyes, only opening them when he hears the first hiss of fireworks. Following the trail of sparks up into the sky, when it explodes with an ear aching crack France catches a glimpse of England's face in the light.

The other Nation looks old, tired, and reminiscent, and France suddenly remembers. Hong Kong. He puts a hand on England's shoulder, and the other Nation glances back at him, and offers a slight smile, which is caught up in the light of a second firework.

Another explosion covers something that England says, and as France tries to read what England says from his lips, he finds that all he is left with is a smile, and then a verse.

"_Remember, remember the fifth of November._

_Gunpowder treason and plot._

_I know of no reason why gunpowder and treason_

_Should ever be forgot._"


	7. Snow

**A/N**: Sorry for the delay, folks. Real life caught up with me (mmmn, love to my Korea/Hungary. *happyface*), and my inner!FrUK ran away for a month. They eloped. And came back happy and fluffy and--yeah. XD;;

Thanks so much to everyone who added/favourited/commented. You're all awesome, and thank you for making me so happy!

* * *

France can see that England's attention isn't on America as the boy reads through his ridiculous notes, but out of the window where white flakes have been falling on and off all morning. He recalls a semi-drunken conversation they had – oh, two, maybe three years ago. England had been complaining about the rain (which wasn't that unusual), but had gone on to complain about how little snow he was getting these days, and how much he missed it.

France wonders if he still misses it.

He realises that his own concentration is focused out of the window, although he is watching the grey expanse rather than the snowfall like England. Well, bless America, he does tend to go on, and it is rather boring. He pulls his attention back to the bespectacled Nation, and struggles to focus on him and what he is saying. As he does, he begins to realise that even America's concentration isn't on his notes, and the boy is practically stammering, as his gaze swings to the window almost constantly.

Standing up, France shakes his hair out as all eyes fall on him. "I call for a break." He says, smugly.

America straightens up, grinning. "I agree." His words are only seconds before calls echo around the room, as Nations stand up, some already gathering their things. No one wants to be there.

Out of the corner of his eye, and through the chaos of Nations moving to be with friends, France catches sight of England slipping out of the hall. Spain is coming over to him, and France quickly waves him off with a flick of his wrist, as he dodges past North Italy and Germany to follow the other blonde out of the room.

England is standing just outside, still in the lee of the door, one hand held out into the light snowfall. France stands back and watches him as England lifts his hand to his face to watch a snowflake melt into his calloused skin. A smirk curves the corners of France's mouth, and he steps forward, hands out stretched. Firmly pressing against England's shoulders he pushes him out into the snow.

The other Nation turns to glare at him, as white flakes begin to settle in his hair and on his shoulders. "What was that for, frog?"

"Aww, _Angleterre_, I know you wanted to go out in it."

"S-shut up! What do you know?"

France just laughs, stepping out of the doorway. England takes a few steps back, his black shoes now almost white with snow. "It was all over your face, _mon cher_."

England growls, gritting his teeth, fists clenching, and France laughs again, smiling fondly at the younger Nation. Before he has a chance to react, England has crouched, gathering a handful of snow, and flinging it at his face. The make shift snowball isn't packed together, and it doesn't hit him with any sort of force, but the cold shock to his face still makes France step back in shock.

For a moment he is still, and then he chuckles, brushing the snow off his face with his suit sleeve as he rushes past England. He has already seen the look on France's face and has crouched again, gathering another snowball, and throwing it just as France launches his first one.

Spain steps out of the doorway just in time to be caught on the shoulder by a badly aimed throw by France, and France can hear North Italy's giggles from the corridor. Soon other Nations are piling out of the doorway, joining in with the impromptu fight. A few of them hang back by the walls, but that just makes them targets, and by the time Japan has been hit in the face by a particularly well aimed throw by South Korea those who want to stay out of the madness have learnt better than to linger there. Only Russia seems to be mostly unhit, for what France can only think of as obvious reasons.

France sidles over to America and Canada while England is distracted attempting to hit China's back. A few furtive whispers later, and France dances away before England can notice, although not quickly enough to dodge a snowball that comes from his left (one of the Italys, France suspects, seeing them out of the corner of his eye, and launching a few half-aimed handfuls of snow at them).

By now, fingers are numbing and suits are soaking wet, and many of the Nations have already retreated indoors, but the two American Nations catch England easily before he has a chance to escape. Canada and America bombard England with snowballs, and soon Australia and Sealand come over to join in the abuse, wicked grins on all of their faces.

England half-screams when France sneaks up behind him, unnoticed because of the flurry of snowballs from England's former colonies, and shoves a handful of snow under his collar. Turning, he forces a handful of snow in France's face at the same time as he squirms, trying to dislodge the melting snow, but France is laughing too much to care. It was worth it for the scream, and judging by the laughter from behind England the others agree too.

"Fucking frog." England is still squirming desperately, and as he shrugs out of his suit jacket France noticed that his fingers are grey with cold. They are the only ones left by now: even the other four are slipping back into the warmth of the meeting hall to gather around the radiators with the other Nations. "What the hell was that for?"

France grins, taking England's jacket, and reaching round to unhook the younger Nation's shirt at the back. England shifts his shoulders so that the snow that hadn't melted falls out, although France can see through the white shirt that his back was soaking. "Fun, _Angleterre_." He replies with a smile as he wraps his arm around England's back and gently leads him back inside.

"Well, you couldn't have got someone else? This is my best suit." England shifts slightly, but doesn't shake France off. Both of them are shivering slightly, and they emit identical sighs of relief as they step out of the cold into the heated doorway.

Glancing to his side, France takes England in. He is soaking, his messy hair clinging to his pale features, and his nose is red and slightly running, but he is also grinning wildly in the kind of way that France doesn't get to see so often any more.

Tugging him a bit closer, France smiles to himself, even when England dislodges himself. Shoulder to shoulder, there was no way he could forget that England was older now, but for a moment he's seen a glimpse of the wild youngster that he misses so much.


	8. Christmas

**A/N**: Thank you again to everyone who added, reviewed or favourited. And also, happy Christmas!

* * *

The last straw was the fight over the TV in the afternoon.

The first had been months before, when England had first asked America to join him for Christmas. The next thing he knew, Canada and France were joining them, and then, somehow, it had become common knowledge that England was having a huge party for Christmas and everyone was invited. By then it was too late for him to say no, and accepting replies were coming through.

The second straw had been the night before when England was panicking over last minute details, checking again and again that the catering was fine and putting up the last cards that had arrived in the post that morning, when Ireland had turned up unannounced. Drunk and supported by Northern Ireland, his red headed brother had thrust an unwrapped bottle of whiskey at him with a slurred happy Christmas and then pushed himself past to collapse onto the sofa. Northern Ireland had given him a helpless look and a quiet apology, and England had struggled to brush it off with a smile.

The third had been when he was still there when he came downstairs in the morning, snoring loudly. Northern Ireland had helped to roll him up into bed just before the doorbell rang.

France was the fourth. England had hoped that the snow and the channel tunnel problems would hold him back, but apparently no such luck. "You're early." England complained, but France looked the other Nation up and down, tutted, and then dragged him inside. England found himself pushed into the shower, and once he was out, dressed in a suit that he didn't recognise, but fitted him perfectly. France caught him looking at it in the mirror.

"You're welcome."

England frowned at him through his reflection. "What?"

"Happy Christmas, _mon cher_. It suits you."

England twigged, and looked down at the suit again, tugging the jacket. Ah. The cut and style did remind him of France's own. That explained a lot.

He was saved from having to come up with a reply by the doorbell. England span away from France, jogging down the stairs to answer it.

Scotland's wayward comment became the fifth straw. "Ach, you're letting France dress you now?" He had asked, smugly and loudly, in front of all the other Nations. England hadn't wanted to hit anyone so hard for months.

Chaos had taken over as Nations began to fill his house to the brim. Luckily he'd thought far enough ahead to order catering, but he had still felt his stress levels rise as he struggled to keep up with his guests. There were too many, everywhere. All he'd wanted was a quiet Christmas.

The dinner had, at least, gone reasonably well. The meal was good, and England had thought ahead and ordered extra so Ireland's unanticipated arrival hadn't caused too much hassle. Even so, England had been too busy fussing over everyone else and hadn't had the chance to enjoy it himself.

And then chaos had returned afterwards. There had been a half arsed attempt at charades, but the game hadn't started well, and failed miserably, so the TV had been turned on, and by the time America had got over England's grand total of five channels it was almost time for the Queen's speech.

He was greeted with stony faces from the room, and then America had snatched the remote back, and changed it to the whatever kids movie it was that was being played on BBC2 that year, which was met by disapproval from a few of the other Nations. Korea had jumped in to snatch the remote, and soon the pair were struggling over it, switching between channels as they went.

England didn't scream, nor did he join in the fight. Calmly, he stood, leaving the room, and marched out, through the messy kitchen into the garden.

Currently, he is sitting on the half frozen bench, trying to ignore the cold, and thinking of all the horrible things he would like to do with the Nations currently filling his house, starting with that idiot America. Once again, he finds himself regretting giving up cigarettes completely all those years ago.

The kitchen door reopens and England refuses to look up, even when France's perfectly presented trousers and shoes come into view in the half melted snow in front of him. "You'll freeze out here."

Warm hands wrap an expensive jacket over his shoulders and England growls, sitting up straighter so that it falls off and he hands it back to France grumpily. "I'll be fine."

France sits down next to him, and though England won't say anything, he can feel the warmth of France's thigh against his, and it reminds him just how cold he actually is. He expects France to say something, but he doesn't, and the silence drags on, their breath misting in the semi darkness in front of them. England's hands are freezing, but he won't move them to his lap where they might be warmer because France will notice. Eventually, he can't take France's silence any more and he huffs. "Fine. What is it, you git?"

"Why don't you come back inside? You must be freezing."

England looks at France and realises that he must be just as cold as he is. Colder – his jacket is still on his lap. "Oh, you idiot!" He growls, grabbing France by the hand and pulling him up off the bench. "Get back inside."

France smiles to himself as he is dragged back inside, into the sitting room, where the chaos has been sorted. A few of the Nations have disappeared, but most have sat down on various seats or the floor. On one sofa, China is sitting uncomfortably beside Japan and Germany (who has Italy on his lap), with Korea leaning against his legs on the floor in front of them. The other sofa is occupied by Canada and America, who pulls his smaller brother onto his lap when they appear. France and England slot into place beside them, squished up together uncomfortably close. The room is quiet, and the TV is showing the Queen's speech.

England sighs happily, and settles down between France and America. His hand is still in France's, but he doesn't care, especially when Scotland throws a bottle of gin their way and France pours him a large one.

Perhaps this Christmas is still salvageable after all.


	9. Rose

AN: Thank you, as usual, to all the lovely people who reviewed, favourited or added this story. You all make me so happy, thank you!

-Ela.

* * *

France is leaning back, a smile on his lips as he watches England potter around the garden. On his lap, abandoned, is an open newspaper, and his thin hands are curled comfortably around an old mug full of coffee. It's summer, and for once the sun is shining, and England has demanded that they 'make the most of it'. The younger Nation is currently muddy and sweaty, and attacking a rose bush with what appears to be an oversized pair of scissors.

"Why don't you just get someone to do it for you?" France asks, shifting slightly and leaning forward.

England snaps the secateurs closed irritably, and glares at France over his shoulder. "Because that's not the point." He growls, and then turns back to his work.

France leans back and sips from his mug, and for a while longer the sounds of the garden are left interrupted. England is leaning over deeper into the bush, and France is enjoying the view too much to risk losing it. There's only so long he can go without interfering though, and soon he lays his mug down on the rickety old table and strolls over to get a closer look.

As he approaches, England's shoulders tense, before he snaps, spinning around and waving the secateurs dangerously close to France's nose. "Don't even think about taking a step closer, frog."

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, France quirks an eyebrow, and grins winningly at his neighbour. "You wouldn't dare, eyebrows."

"Don't tempt me." England snaps them threateningly, the tips still only inches from France's nose.

He refuses to flinch though, just batting them away with one scarred hand. "What are you doing anyway?"

Huffing, England turns back to the brush. "Pruning", is his short reply.

"Oh, I see." There is another pause. "What's that mean?"

"Cutting off the dead flowers, you idiot!" England spins back around, and puts his hands on his hips, glowering at France. "Look, for Pete's sake, if you're not going to help, at least don't bother me. Or, better yet, go and annoy someone else. I'm sure, I don't know, Spain and Prussia are dying for your company." He smirks. "Heaven knows why, but I guess birds of a perverted feather have to stick together."

France chuckles and tilts his head. "Now, when did I say I wouldn't help?"

"Oh? You'll get those ridiculous trousers filthy." England comments, and France can tell from years of experience with the haughty Nation that England is more surprised than he seems.

Looking down at them for a minute, France considers it. He had half offered in order to throw England off track, but he isn't averse to working, despite what some people might think. Perhaps by giving it a go he'll understand why England is so adamant that he has to do this himself, rather than ordering in help. Still, these are expensive trousers, designer, of course, and while he can afford to replace them he'd really rather not.

"Have you got a pair I can borrow?" He asks, finally.

England really is surprised now, and he almost smiles at France, before remembering and frowning instead, like it's a pain in the arse that France has offered to help. "Upstairs. Try in the bottom drawer of my dresser. If not, take my jogging bottoms: they're in the wash basket, but they're clean enough."

Obediently, France trots off, pausing only to grab his coffee from the table, and England takes advantage of the time to himself to get back to work. He needs to get this done while the weather is good and he has the time off work.

After a while, France returns in an old pair of trousers that look only slightly too small for his waist. He's also swapped his neat shirt for a t-shirt, and tied his hair up into a rough ponytail. England glances over at him, and then quickly turns his attention back to the rose bush.

"I need the flower bed by the oak tree cleaned out so I can plant some seedlings." He instructs France. "There's a trowel in the greenhouse, and knee pads if you want them. Just get out all the weeds out, and any big stones, and turn the soil over. It shouldn't be too hard, even for you."

"Alright, _Angleterre_~." France starts to hum to himself as he lets himself into the greenhouse to grab the tools. It isn't a song that England knows (not that he pays too much attention to the charts, but he always knows most of the current releases thanks to America's addiction to it), so he guesses it's one from his own country. At first it's irritating, but after a while England starts to tune it out, moving from bush to bush, and then finally coming to kneel beside France, helping him with the flower bed. Together, they gather a bucket full of weeds and the remains of last year's flowers, piling stones in another one.

Suddenly, England reaches out for France and stills him. France looks at England with a question on his lips, but England silences him with a muddy finger. They fall still, and France follows England's gaze to the hedge, where he becomes aware of movement. After a little while, a blackbird hopes out. The bird looks up at the two Nations, and hops uncertainly, before cautiously moving forward. France realises that England has turned up a worm in the patch that he was digging in, and watches as the bird moves, hop by hop, closer, until it swoops in on the wiggling creature, and then flops off.

England grins at France, elated, and France can't help but laugh at his expression, reaching out to ruffle his hair with a muddy hand. England yelps, and swats France away, before reaching to try and rectify the damage. It only ends with him depositing more mud in his hair, though, and France only laughs harder. Huffing, England glares at him, but doesn't say anything, going back to his work.

It doesn't take long for them to finish the flowerbed, and then England lays down his trowel and steps back, double checking it for anything they've missed.

"What next?"

"We plant the flowers." England says, simply. He leads France back into the greenhouse, and France pays attention to the greenery around him for the first time. There are trays and trays of unidentified seedlings, some of them starting to bud and flower. France knows his flowers well, and can tell which are which, but still has no idea what to do. So he accepts the tray that he is handed in silence, and carries it back out.

England has brought out his own tray, and he lays it down beside the bed. "Now, we need to work out where we're going to put these." He says, thoughtfully. He kneels back down, and starts to put the pots out. From where he's standing, France can see the pattern as it's laid out, and he realises that this is a bit like painting a picture. Only, with a picture, once you've painted it, you get to see the results straight away. England will have to wait weeks, maybe more, for his flowers to fully come into their own.

Leaning forward, France frowns a little. "Why don't you swap those two?" He offers, pointing at two gladioli that are just starting to bud. "The colours will match better then."

England frowns, and for a moment, France thinks that he is going to complain, but then he rises, and stands along side France, frowning at the flowers. Then he kneels back down, and carefully swaps the two pots. "Is that better?" He asks, looking back up at France, and for once there is no antagonism in his green eyes.

France hesitates, and blinks back at England, before drawing his gaze away to look over the bed. "Yes."


	10. A Kiss

**A/N:** Oh Gods, what happened? What didn't happen? XD

I now have a degree. A sort of job. I'm living with my parents again. And I found out that even though I ship Fruk, my inner!England doesn't. XD;; He's been a royal pain in the arse. But hopefully I'm back on track now.

Hopefully.

- Gil

* * *

England remembers.

He remembers a kiss.

He remembers a boat, oh so many years ago, and the blonde Nation who jumped out and walked on his (_his!_) stony beaches.

He remembers how the sea breeze caught in long blonde hair, and how the Nation had glanced around in curiosity while the boat was dragged to shore. Shockingly blue eyes had suddenly met his, locking on his hiding place on the cliff tops, and England had blushed, and ducked into the grass, and sworn at the fairies who were giggling at his blush.

When he'd gathered the courage to look again he was gone, leaving behind only grooves in the sand and pebbles where the boat had been beached, and England wasn't sure if he was glad or disappointed.

The island Nation had carefully climbed down to the beach by a path you wouldn't know was there to look, taking care not to slip on the damp chalk. He clutched to clumps of grass as he lowered himself down step by step, camouflaged by the green of his cloak and the burrowed in path. At the bottom he padded down to the sea, sinking into the sand and stones as he walked. Holding his hand to his over large eyebrows, he shaded green eyes from the sun, and looked out for the boat.

It was then that a hand was placed on his shoulder.

England whipped around, growling, ready to fight, but stumbled when he looked up into blue eyes again.

There was a smile curved onto the Nation's face as he spoke in a language that England didn't understand. England gazed up at him, and he chuckled, reaching out to brush his long fingers through England's tousled hair. "Britannia's child?" He asked, in Latin.

England nodded, as he knocked his hand out of his hair, unsure if he liked this touchy-feely Nation. "I'm England." He told him, proudly, standing up.

The Nation laughed again, obviously amused at England's pride for some reason. "I am France." He stooped to pick England up, and the small Nation quickly took a step back into a wave, the water splashing around his ankles. "I just want to show you something." France attempted to placate him.

Hesitating, England looked up at the Nation, taking him in. He was still young – not quite a gangly teenager yet, but tipping over into one, and still at least a head taller than England. But his blue eyes held no trace of a lie, even if the fairies that had followed England down the beach had scattered in his presence. "All right."

France knelt down in front of him with a smile, and then offered him his shoulders. Hesitantly, England clambered on, gripping onto his luxurious hair. France rose, standing tall with his hand on England's leg to steady him. He pointed out towards the blue horizon. "That's my land." He told him.

England peered out across the sea, leaning against France's head, until he was able to pick cliffs out where the sea met the sky. He clung onto France's hair with dizzy excitement. "I see you!"

Chuckling, France put his hand over England's, loosening the tight hold. "We're neighbours, you and I." He lowered England back down to the beach, but took up his hand again as they walked back towards the white cliffs. "That makes us brothers."

Huffing, England looked away from him. "I don't like my brothers."

"Ah, but I won't be like them. I'll be the best big brother!" He sounded serious, and England wondered if he actually meant it.

They paused at the base of the cliffs, and he looked back up at him again, considering it. He nodded, before pulling his hand out of his grip. "Wait here." Scrambling back up the path, he was unsurprised that when he looked back down, France was attempting to follow him. The fairies swarmed around him as he reached the top, whispering in his hair and pulling on his hair and clothes, trying to get him to run away and hide from the other Nation.

England swatted them away and glared at them, surprised at their reaction. They didn't like his brothers either, but they told them so to their faces.

Ignoring them, he ran a little way down from the cliff top and glanced around. There were woods a little way from the cliff, and he would be able to find something easily in there, but he could hear France behind him, and he guessed he must be near the top. He frowned, glancing around, and then down to his feet. His problem was solved, and he crouched, rising again just as France reached the top of the cliff and called out his name.

Hiding his hands behind his back, he span back around to look at him, and waited for France to come over. He did, a little cautiously now, keeping his eyes on England.

"Promise you'll be a better big brother?" England asked a little cautiously.

France smiled at that and bent down so that they were at eye level. "Promise."

Abruptly, England held out the bunch of daisies that he picked, the flowers in one pudgy fist. "All right then!" He agreed, smiling childishly.

France laughed out loud at that and swept the little Nation up into his arms hugging him tight. England squealed, and struggled to get free, unused to such enthusiasm (at least, such enthusiasm from someone that isn't his fairy friends), but France hung on tight. He kissed first one cheek and then the other, and England finally stilled, blushing furiously as he felt the press of lips even after France had moved, finally released him.

"Little brother." France said, fondly, taking the flowers from England's unresisting hand.

England slowly put his hand on his burning cheek, then realised what he was doing and glared at France. "Git!" He swore at him, switching out of Latin to insult him in his own language, then turned tail and ran, still feeling his cheeks burning.


	11. Breakfast

**AN**: Thank you so much for all the comments, adds and favourites.

- Gil

* * *

It's hot. Hotter than England can remember it being for many years.

Hotter, even than France.

England dials the number with a gleeful smile on his face, ready to get beautiful revenge for a thousand years of teasing, and then hesitates just before hitting the call button. He remembers the recent floods. France will no doubt be tired, and possibly even a little ill.

Well, in that case there's only one thing for it.

He finally hits the call button, and waits through the ring tone patiently, until France picks up. "_Angleterre_?" As he predicted, France sounds bone tired, and for a moment England feels a little sorry for the pervert.

"Hello, France. Guess who's having another heat wave?" England says smugly.

"Congratulations, you've managed to see the sky without clouds again." France replies dryly. "I'm a little busy, _mon cher_."

England hesitates for only a moment. "Yes, well. I don't think you can appreciate how beautiful it is here while you're out there, so you're coming here for a long weekend so you can see." France begins to stammer an excuse, but England quickly cuts over him. "I insist, France."

"Well, if you insist." France says, and England can hear his smile. "When do you want me?" There is a lecherous undertone to his words, and England would never admit to being a little pleased to hear that return.

England splutters for a moment irately. "Never, you bloody wino!" France chuckles. "But you can arrive around midday on Friday." He'll have to ask for the day off, but it won't be too bad.

"All right, _cheri_. I'll phone you to let you know when my train will get in."

"Fuck off, frog, you know the way to my house. Get a taxi or the tube from the station."

France chuckles again. He probably expected that reply. "All right. See you then."

"See you then, France."

England only realises the next morning, as he's helping the brownies to air out the guest room, that for it to be a break for France he'll have to try not to snipe at him over the weekend, and regrets it.

* * *

France arrives a little past one on Friday, and after England leads him up to the guest room, sleeps through to the morning. After taking in the morning sunlight (and England is right, it's glorious, even in central London), and relaxing a little, he pushes himself out of the comfortable bed and pads downstairs in his nightclothes. England is in the sitting room, newspaper on his lap, but he looks up at France when he comes in.

"You look a mess."

France considers this. England has already showered and dressed, and is already starting to look a little uncomfortable under his sweater vest, whereas he merely looks a little sleep ruffled. "Perhaps." He replied, crossing over to lean over the sofa and kiss England's cheek.

The younger Nation ducks quickly and rises, leaving his paper on the sofa. "I prepared breakfast."

France tenses. "Ah… _mon cher_, you shouldn't have." He hopes that England hasn't tried to cook a cooked breakfast for him again. He doesn't think he has the energy to endure it. But when England leads him through to the dinning room, he finds that what he means is he's laid out bread and cereal for them, and France is relieved. He smiles when he sees that England has even brought croissants for him, though no doubt they are a poor mockery of the real thing. "Thank you, _Angleterre_." He says, as he takes his place, not even groping the other blonde as he leans over him to pour coffee.

"Yes, well. You are a guest." England says, a little stiffly, as he pulls back. He takes his places on the other side of the table. "Well. Tuck in."

France smiles, watching England for a little while, watching him as he serves himself cereal, then pours the milk over, putting a little in his tea cup, then filling the rest up from a teapot covered by an embroidered tea cosy. Then England looks up, and he grins at him, before reaching out to grab one of the croissants, hoping that they won't be too bad.

A companionable silence falls as the pair eat their breakfast. France finds that the croissant is actually edible, and hungry after his long sleep, reaches out for a second one. England sits back in his seat and sips a second cup of tea, watching the birds in the garden out of the French doors behind him, but France also occasionally catches the other's forest green eyes flicking to him, and he smiles at him, winking at him, and grins to see a beautiful blush spread across the other's cheeks when he realises he's been caught looking.

England splutters then, and looks down into his teacup. "Ah, so." He says, a little awkwardly, and France rests his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands, looking at his little _Angleterre_ with a smirk. "If you've caught up on sleep now, I thought we could take the car out to Epping Forest today for a picnic." He says. "You'll be able to appreciate the weather out there better."

"You haven't prepared a picnic already, have you?" France asks, a little concerned.

"No!" England snaps. "You can bloody well help me with it. I'm not doing everything for you!"

"Then I think it's a charming idea." France agrees with a smile. "Let me shower and dress, and then I'll come down and prepare something for us. And you," he lifts his chin off his hands to point at the other blonde, smirking at him, "can consider yourself in charge of cleaning up."

England rolls his eyes, but he looks a little relieved too. "Bloody frog, it's my house! Fine. But you'd better put some decent stuff in, not just your fancy food."

"All right, _Angleterre_, I'll make something even your foul taste buds can palate."

England looks like he wants to throw his now empty cup at France. "Git!"


	12. Picnic

**AN**: Sequal to Breakfast.

* * *

True to his word, France showers and dresses quickly, coming down to a tidy kitchen. He smiles at England. Before getting to work, he takes stock of what England has, and then sets to making sandwiches and a salad for them. As he works, England digs out a picnic basket and prepares drinks, mixing up Pimms in a bottle, and France notices him slip a punet of strawberries and a pot of cream in too, and smiles to himself. Between the pair of them it doesn't take long to prepare, and soon England is taking the basket (and glaring at France when he offers to take him, apparently insisting on being a gentleman) and leading the way out of the house to his garage a few streets away. After loading it into the back of his Bentley, England takes his place in the drivers seat, and waits until France puts his seat belt on to drive out into the Saturday morning traffic.

As they make their way out of central London, France turns the radio on, and is unsurprised to find it tuned to Classical FM. They both settle back as the familiar music fills the car, the silence as comfortable as it was at breakfast, and France enjoys the break from their constant fighting. He spots England hand, resting on the side of his seat as they work their way through the street, and considers placing his own on top of it, but doesn't want to start an argument, so leaves it for now.

They park in a busy car park, and France looks around curiously at the families that have filled it. A young couple, just setting off with their dog in tow smile at him before disappearing into the woods, and he smiles back.

"I thought we could do a walk around, then come back for the picnic." England suggests, as he comes back from getting his ticket.

"Sounds wonderful, _mon cher_." France agrees, smiling at him.

"Yes, well. It's no use walking in the heat of the day, is it?" England puts the ticket on the dashboard, and waits for France to get out and close the door, before locking the car.

They set off down a wooded path, England leading the way. France thinks that the woods seem fairly familiar, but most of the woods in England seem to be more or less the same. Perhaps he's remembering the forests that used to cover Kent. At first, the paths are busy, but England leads them down less well-trodden paths into the heart of the forest, and soon a quiet stillness surrounds them, and France is aware they are the only ones around.

It is past midday by the time they get back to the car, and very hot. England is sweating, and has rolled his sleeves up, and even dressed more sensibly, France isn't much better. England shrugs out of his sweater vest, exchanging it for the picnic basket, and glares at France as though daring him to say anything, but France doesn't take the dare, shutting the car door for England and letting him lead the way again.

France is surprised when England leads the way past the picnic area. They walk out for another ten minutes. "Where are we going?" He asks, glancing at England.

"A place I know. It'll be quieter." England responds, and soon the trees open out into a meadow. The grass is bright, and studded with daisies and buttercups, and France smiles to see it. They settle under the shade of the trees, England unfolding a tartan blanket for them to sit on, and share out sandwiches and drinks, basking in the midday heat.

After they've eaten their sandwiches and strawberries, France stretches out on the blanket for a nap. England watches him, but quickly grows bored, absent-mindedly picking daisies from the grass beside him, and starting to thread them into a daisy chain, like he used to when he was younger, or when his colonies were little to protect them from the fae. He exhausts the area around him of the little white flowers and shifts into a patch of them, sitting in the dry grass comfortably, and ignoring a fairy that flutters over to take a look at what he's doing. He links the ends of the chain by splitting the first daisy near it's head and threading the last through it, then clipping a new head off and slipping it over the end of the last, then looks at the chain he's created. It's not big enough to be a necklace, but just big enough to be a crown, and that thought makes him grin.

Crossing back over to France, he sits down beside him then lifts his head into his lap. France stirs a little, but doesn't wake for now, and England quickly slips the crown of daisies onto his head, and takes a moment to admire the way that the flowers look against his golden hair. Then, acting quickly before France stirs any more, pulls his mobile out of his pocket and takes a picture of the sleeping Nation, smiling as he saves himself.

"Taking advantage of me as I sleep?" France asks, blinking up at him with sleepy blue eyes.

England quickly shoves his head off his lap and snorts. "You wish, frog. Just taking a picture of you looking like a girl."

"Ah, is that what you like?" France twists onto his stomach and pulls England's hands towards him so that he can look at his phone. England pulls the picture up, and before he can respond, France has snatched it out of his hands. He sits up and pulls England towards him, grinning at the phone as he takes a second picture, the daisy chain still adorning his head. Once it's taken, he holds the phone out so they can see the picture, and ignores England's complaints. "You look good, _cheri_." He says, as he sets it as his background.

* * *

The next time France sees England, his first act is to snatch his phone. He smiles when he sees that the background is yet to be changed.


	13. Absence

AN: Thanks to everyone who favourited, reviewed, or added this to their watch. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

* * *

It's a busy period. England's busy, and then France is busy. Whenever France wanders over to see England he's not there or he slams the door in his face with more finality than normal. He gives up, and stops thinking about it, caught up in his own work and other things. Life goes on. He works and drinks and spends time with Prussia and Spain, with Seychelles and Canada. Even at world meetings England always seems to be talking to someone else whenever France glances over.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and before France realises it it's been over a year since they last spoke. It doesn't bother him too much. They've gone years before. Perhaps there's a little twinge of disappointment, and he considers going to knock on England's door again, but then Prussia and Spain appear, and France laughs and the thought disappears again.

He returns one day from Prussia's house (well, Ludwig's now, but France thinks that he'll always think of it as Prussia's) to find England sitting on his sofa, looking very much at home. The Nation looks up from his glass of wine as France comes in and France blinks in surprise for a moment.

"You still leave your key under the window. What did you expect?" England smirks, and offers France a glass.

France takes the glass and holds it out for England to fill, and recognises the bottle. England's raided his wine cellar. "It's been a while, _mon cher_. Missed me?"

England snorts and gulps from his glass. "You wish, pervert. I just thought I should check you weren't molesting someone."

Chuckling, France sits down beside him, and reaches out to squeeze England's leg. "Jealous?"

Quickly swatting his hand away, England's cheeks darken to France's delight. "For fuck's sake!" He jumps up, and for a moment seems to be considering throwing his wine in France's face. Instead, he knocks it back, downing the glass and then slamming it down on the table beside the bottle. "Fucking frog. Carry on fagging around with Prussia and Spain, then, and see if I bloody well care."

He storms off, and France starts up to stop him. England stomps into the hall, grabbing his coat and shoving his shoes on, and France follows him, leaning against the wall as he watches him. He searches for the right thing to say and then… "You don't have to leave so quickly. After all, we have a bottle of wine to finish~."

England just glares at him, stomping his feet to make sure his shoes are on, and then stepping out and slamming the door behind him. France sighs, and hesitantly reaches out, fingers touching the door where England pulled it open.

Still, he returns to his wine with a sigh, finishing the glass and putting it in the fridge for later. He pushes the visit from his mind and gets to work, leaning over his desk and frowning over his paperwork.

He spends the day at his desk, working hard and easily catching up with his work. He finally stops late in the evening. After a long, relaxing bath he makes himself dinner. He considers the bottle of wine in the fridge, but then leaves it. Instead, he relaxes on the balcony with a sneaky cigarette and his book, enjoying the last of the summer heat.

When he finally goes to bed, he frowns a little, and shifts in the silk sheets. Something is wrong. He only works it out when he buries his face in the pillow. It smells of England. He slept here last night. France finds himself cooing over his cute little bunny, and wraps his arms around the pillow, curling around it. He slowly tries to relax and sleep, but is still smiling happily, imagining England sleeping here.

* * *

When England wakes in the morning, he groans at his idiocy and presses his face into the pillow. He's just encouraged France to go and do something stupid. He doesn't want to think about what he's going to do now. He forces himself up, shower, grabs an apple, and then heads off to work, still sulking at himself.

By the time he comes home he's mostly relaxed, although the second he realises his door is unlocked he tenses again, stepping in silently, on guard. He recognises the ridiculous coat hanging up in his hallway though, and curses under his breath. He kicks off his shoes and storms off to find the wanker, eventually finding France relaxing out on his patio, wine glass in hand.

"You're finally home! I told you we still have a bottle of wine to finish~." France purrs, leaning back in his chair and offering England a glass.

"What are you doing here, you git?" England complains, but he does snatch the glass and the bottle, pouring himself a full glass and taking and eager gulp.

France chuckles, pushing out a chair for England with his foot. "I just told you, silly." He pointed out. "Besides, you disappeared so quickly yesterday~. I thought it was about time we caught up."

England finally let out a little noise and relaxed a little, flopping into his chair and taking another long, needy drink. "Why? I was enjoying your absence." He sneered, reaching out for the bottle again and topping up France's glass for him, finally relenting.

"Oh, _Angleterre_! You and I both know that you miss me really." He lets out a noise of complaint, huffing, and France laughs.

"Yeah, well, you were busy. You seemed to be having plenty of fun with Prussia and Spain, for example." France is amused by how much he sounds like a petulant child, and he reaches out, ruffling England's already scruffy hair.

"Oh, _mon coeur_. You know I always have time for you."

England swatted his hand away again with an irritated noise. "Wanker! I don't want your time! I was enjoying the peace!"

"Of course, of course. But I'm back now, and I shall look after you." France purred, leaning in closer, with a lecherous smirk.

England punched him in the face, but France found himself laughing, just pleased to have his England back after so long.


	14. Floods

A/N: As usual, thank you to everyone for supporting me with this. Special thanks to my Francis/Darksstars for continuously irritating me to continue. XD

Also, because I'm a derp, I forgot to put this in present tense and had to go back and correct it, so if anyone spots anything I've missed, please let me know!

- Gil.

* * *

So much for England having better weather than him, France thinks with a smirk as he looks at the left of the weather report.

When he is still covered in black clouds the next day, France is a bit more worried. However, he doesn't do anything until the fourth day, by which point the floods are making European headlines. His slow, relaxed Sunday morning is ruined as he switches the news on and sees that the tidal barriers on the Thames have failed and London has flooded. Ironically (and thankfully) the rain finally stops within hours of them breaking.

Still, one grey ride on an army helicopter full of handsome men and women that he is too worried to enjoy later, France is in London.

He lets himself into England's house with the key that the other Nation still hasn't moved, and runs up the stairs to his bedroom.

"_Angleterre_?" No reply, and he isn't in his room either. France checks the bathroom, the study, the living room and the kitchen; he even opens the door to that ridiculous cellar of England's, but there is no light at the bottom of the stairs, so he assumes he isn't lurking down there.

Frowning to himself, France leans against the kitchen counter to think, and then draws his mobile out of his pocket. He hits redial, but England still doesn't pick up. Sighing, France closes the phone again, leans back, and tries to think. If he was a stuffy, old fashioned, flooded Nation, where would he be?

He almost forgets to lock the door as he leaves, but returns to do it, slipping the key back into place before he sets off up the road at a jog. The Underground is out of action, of course, and the streets are rather empty in Shepard's Bush, which has mercifully avoided the worst of the floods. There seems to be less traffic than normal on the roads, and he doesn't see a taxi on his way to the bus stop.

The bus is crowded, full of worried people whispering quietly amongst themselves. It has to stop half way along its route because the roads are impassable past that point, and France gets off the bus with a large group of displaced Londoners. Looking around, bemused, France tries to work out where he is, but struggles. Eventually he decides to follow the emergency services, a slow but steady stream heading towards the river.

England is dressed in his usual dress trousers and shirt, both ruined by the muddy water, helping an injured man climb out of his house in water up to their ankles. France wades over, wrinkling his nose at the filthy water, but not saying anything.

Before England can complain about his presence, France takes the young man's other arm, and between the two of them they manage to safely get him to the waiting ambulance at the water's edge.

"We need extra hands to help build a sandbag wall on the bank." England says, turning to France.

The older Nation nods, putting his hand on England arm and squeezing lightly. "Show me where."

Together, the two Nations work as they have done many times before. Maintaining silence, they are able to do it without arguing or complaining; handing sandbags one after another along a chain of hands until the sun sets and it is too dark to see. Then France leads a soaking, shivering England to a school hall where tea is being served, sits him down at a table and fetches a tea and a coffee. The ambulance service comes round, wrapping foil blankets over both of their shoulders, for which they give quiet thanks, pulling them tighter around their tired bodies. When France leans against England's shoulder, he lets him, and together they both sip slowly at their drinks.

As they sit there, the man they had helped earlier limps over, and a little gingerly slips onto the other side of the bench. "All right, gents. Thanks a lot for earlier." Both of the Nation's lips quirk a little at the heavy cockney accent, England because he enjoys the familiar accent, and France because it is so stereotypical.

England nods his head as a response, but France smiles. "That's not a problem. I'm just glad that you're…" He trails off because of the foul look he is being given by the man, and France looks at England in surprise. Has he said something wrong? But England looks just as surprised as him.

"Are you French as well?" The man asks, jabbing a finger towards England with a sneer on his face.

Neither of them can hold back a chuckle at that, and England quickly shakes his head. "Obviously not."

"So I was helped by a frog and a toff?"

"Do you have a problem with that?" England leans forward over the table a little, frowning at the man.

The man snorts, standing up again. "You should feel ashamed of yourself, hanging around with a Frenchie."

France thinks that England will leave it at that, but to his surprise, England rises as well, his blanket slivering off to the floor. "Wait just a moment. This Frenchie helped save your bloody life! And he's not the only one either! A load of them came over to help today, and I hope they didn't all get greeted the same way you've just greeted Francis."

"We don't need their help! This is our country—"

"Our bloody country is six foot under water, and I don't give a damn about your issues about what happened over a hundred years ago when you weren't around to experience it! There's only one person allowed to take the piss out of Francis, and that's me."

For a moment there is silence, not just between the three of them, but in quite a large area around them. England realises how loud he's being and blushes (rather cutely France thought), but doesn't back off.

The man is silent, obviously startled by the outburst and not sure how to respond. "You just want to give our country to the Europeans!"

"No, I'm just happy to accept their help when we need it, just as I'd offer my help if any of them were in difficulty." France puts his hand on England's arm, not wanting the argument to get too heated, and worried that England is having difficulty not mentioning something that he shouldn't. England looks back at him, and frowns. "Whatever, anyway. If you don't appreciate it, perhaps we should take down the sandbags that the French army helped us put up around your house, or take off that nice dressing and put you back where we found you in your house."

Either that, or the stares from around the room are enough to finally make the man back down. He grits his teeth, and starts to storm off as best he could with his bad leg, but England stops him. "Apologise."

The man looks like he was about to scream again, but then spots the dangerous glint in England's eye and backs down. Without looking at France, he mutters a sullen, childish apology, and then limps off before anything else can be said.

As England sits back down, France wraps the foil blanket back over his shoulders. "You didn't need to do that, _mon cher_." He murmurs.

England sniffs. "He irritated me. Besides, like I said, I'm the only one allowed to point out what a frog bastard you are!"


	15. Cooperation

AN: I don't think I need to state what event this is centred around, but for those who don't read the news, England and France have agreed for their armies to co-operate for the next 50 years. And so all frukers rejoiced.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited or added this to their watch, I hope you continue to enjoy it.

-Gil

* * *

His Boss leaves it as late as he dares to tell him, but that just angers England more. He's not a child, and it's _his _country; if anyone deserves to know about a bloody 50 year agreement with that wine bastard, it's him. Their armies working together! Why don't they just get married while they're at it? America's not going to be happy.

But then again, it isn't the European Union and he is rather broke (all those cuts last week were painful). It'll be interesting to see how those actually forced to work together will manage it.

Judging from the silence, France's Boss isn't telling him either, but since they're supposed to be signing the deal tomorrow England knows it's only a matter of time. He quickly withdraws to his living room with a full bottle of rum which becomes an empty bottle of rum with worrying speed.

It's therefore unsurprising that he's very reluctant to leave his warm bed the next morning, but after the third call from work he forces himself out into the shockingly cold autumn air and makes himself to shower and dress. After downing a scolding hot cup of tea, he grumpily accepts the ride that's been waiting outside his door, and is whisked off only half an hour late.

His only consolation is that France looks just as terrible as he feels and England wonders how much the smug bastard drunk in order to actually have a hangover, since he's usually painfully cheerful the morning after a night on the town. They share a glance and silently agree on a truce – for now. Sitting beside their respective Bosses, surrounded by the heads of their armies, they watch as the final agreement is finished off. England's ire grows as he realises just how long this has been planned without them being told. This all seems like a sham to make himself and France feel like they're being involved, and England is struck by the difference between this and the Entente cordiale which he and France personally fought and struggled over together for weeks.

Finally the papers are finished and both sides are happy – or at least as happy as they can be. They're given half an hour to clean up while the press gets organised, and England finds himself shifted along until he's sitting in a corner next to France, half ignored. Watching the chaos as things are sorted out, England isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

"When do you think they'll remember we're here?" France asks, and England looks at him.

"When it's convenient for them, I should imagine." He replies, huffily, straightening out his cuffs. France snickers and nods, and then leans in. England squarks and quickly backs off, but France only reaches to his tie, straightening it out, and England is left red faced and uneasy. "What was that for?"

"You would have complained for months if it was uneven in all the photos."

Fortunatly, they're called up soon after that, so England doesn't have to think of a way to respond, and both Nations stand behind their Bosses, waiting impatiently as they speak empty promises to the crowd of journalists. As they try and reassure everyone that this is in both countries' best interests, France and England share another glance and roll their eyes.

They are the last to sign, after their Bosses and the heads of the army. As England passes the pen to France their hands briefly touch, and England's cheeks darken again as he looks away. But then there is a cheer and a young lady comes round with glasses of champagne and an uneasy glance towards France's Boss. It's France himself in the end that reaches out to pinch her arse, and England stamps very firmly on his foot, earning himself a thankful look. The champagne goes a little way towards easing England's headache, though his Boss tells him off for downing it and a second glass is quickly provided so they can take pictures. England and France are shuffled to the back as the lights flash in front of them, and they look at each other, France winks and England smirks, and they down their drinks.

Sometimes you've got to enjoy the small things in life, and that look of irritation in his Boss's eyes is one of England's favourites.

Two more drinks later they're shuffled into cars to be taken to a celebratory dinner. England is feeling considerably more chirpy as he he's handed a glass of wine as he enters, though his mood falls again when he finds out he's been seated next to France for the dinner. Between the champagne and the wine with his meal, the older Nation gets more and more touchy feely, or at least until England stabs him in the hand with his fork.

The respite only lasts until the dinner ends and people start to move into he other rooms. In one room a make shift ballroom has been set up, and a band is playing. England leans against the wall, glass in hand, relaxing a little as he takes the music in, but he lets his guard down. Next thing he knows there's an arm around his shoulders, and France's smirking face in his.

"Care to dance, _Angleterre_?"

A hand sneaks down between them, grabbing England's arse firmly, and he's had enough. England drops the glass, letting it shatter on the wooden floor, and before France can react, punches him in the face. The look of surprise is even better than his Boss's look of irritation, and soon they're brawling flat out, releasing some of the tension of the day and drawing a crowd of shocked politicians. A couple of the army men are less gobsmacked, and England and France are grabbed and unceremoniously dumped on the street, the door slammed behind them.

Propping himself up against the wall, England wipes blood off his nose and smirks at France. France looks at him, trying to sort out his shirt, and then both Nation's laugh. England squints up at the road they're on. "There's a pub a couple of streets down. Want to go before our Bosses realise what's happened and come looking for us?" He offers, holding out a hand to help France off the street.

France accepts, grinning at England. "You've never uttered such charming words, _mon Coeur_."

England chuckles, and lets France lean on him as they limp together down the street, just glad to be free.


	16. Embroidery

England bites his lip in concentration as he pushes the needle through the thin fabric. He likes embroidery because the simple, repetitive motions are soothing and even on a complicated piece like this there's something restful about it. The finished piece will be an autumn scene, and an array of brown and red threads are laid out on the table in front of him, but he's just about to finish with a soft orange. Brow furrowing, he slides the needle through a few more times until he reaches the end of the line, and then neatly and smoothly ties it off. A quick snip of the scissors, and he's ready to start the next colour, but first he reaches out for the teacup on the table and takes a long sip, accompanied by a content sigh.

However, that drains the cup, and England reaches out for his teapot, only to find that that's empty too. Letting out an irritated grumble, he rises, teapot still in hand to refill it.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink too?"

England almost drops the teapot in shock, having long forgotten about his unwanted and uninvited visitor. France is sitting comfortably in England's other chair, glancing over his book at England, who glares at him in return. When the other let himself in just as he was just about to start sewing, rather than trying to force him out, England had tried ignoring him. It was a technique that had failed him before, but that didn't stop England from hoping that one day France would get the point and actually let him be.

"You can bloody well get one yourself if you want one." England huffs, one hand on his hip and the other still holding his teapot. "You're not welcome here, and I have no desire to encourage you to stay."

France chuckles and lays his book down before sliding out of his chair. "Oh, _Angleterre_, there's no need to deny that you missed me." Reaching out, he gently caresses England's cheek and then he ducks just fast enough to avoid being caught by a slow punch.

England snarls irritably. "I certainly did not miss you!"

France takes a step back, but he also smiles and winks. "Of course not, _mon cher~._"

Grinding his teeth, England storms off to make his tea. He leans heavily against the counter as he waits for the kettle to boil and tries to forget about France and relax again. But almost as soon as he leans back, France waltzes in, and England growls again, eyeing him wearily.

Sauntering over to the cupboards, France explores with England's glare needling into the back of his neck. France ignores him, though, humming contentedly, until he finally finds what he wants in a cupboard above the sink. Letting out a pleased "a-hah~!" he leans up on tiptoes to pull a bottle of wine down. He examines it, wrinkling his nose as he reads the label, and as England watches it, he replaces it and hunts out a new bottle.

Irritably, England snatches up the kettle as it boils, reusing the leaves from before. Meanwhile France continues to hunt for a bottle of wine that'll suit his tastes. When he finally finds one that suits him, he grabs the bottle opener from the sideboard, and England glances over as he hears it open.

"Hey, I was saving that, you wanker!" England rushes over, but it's too late and the bottle's opened.

France chuckles, and since England has wandered too close, kisses his cheek, only to be pushed away. "I'll replace it with something decent, _mon petit chou_. If this is what you save, you need to learn to select your wine properly."

"It's bloody well fine, and you know it." Irritably, England snatches the bottle and pours himself a glass, since he doesn't want France to have it all.

Chuckling, France waits for him to finish and then takes the bottle himself, pouring himself a glass, and picking up England's glass as well. Muttering annoyed curses, England picks up his teapot and reluctantly follows him back up into the sitting room. Placing the pot down, he holds out a hand for his wine glass, but France just smirks. "Now, now, _cher_. Ask nicely."

"Piss off you wanker, and give me my bloody drink!"

France tips his head, still smirking horribly. "You're not being much of a gentleman, _Angleterre_."

England slams his hand down. "Of course I'm not, you're intruding! When will you give me some peace?"

"Ah, but you'd miss me if I left~."

"No I wouldn't! Bugger off, or at least give me my bloody glass!"

Leaning in France smirks. "What's it worth?" He murmurs, low and sultry.

"Not getting punched in the stomach?"

Chuckling, France isn't put off. "Now, now." Leaning in closer, he taps his cheek. "Give big brother a kiss."

"Piss off, wanker!"

France remains close, though, waving the wine in front of England's face. "It's just on the cheek. Even you can do that."

Pouting, England stares at him. It isn't worth it for the glass, but to shut France up and give him a chance to get back to work… reluctantly he presses a bitter, brief kiss to France's cheek, and then snatches the wine away and downs it.

Looking satisfied, France finally retreats to his chair and takes up his book. Relieved, England does the same, curling back up in his seat and finally pours his new cup of tea – something he rather needs after that gulp of wine. England reaches out for his thread, humming out as he decides which one to take next, and then finally settles back down into his embroidery. For a while, there is blissful silence, and both Nations settle back down into their activities, comfortable even after their fight.

But France can't just let it lie, and after ten minutes or so he lays the book down and watches England. England is aware of his gaze, but ignores him for as long as he could until he snaps. "Fine. What is it now?"

"Why didn't you just go and get another glass?"

England stares at him, cheeks blushing. He hadn't even thought of that. "Because I wanted that one!"

Apparently satisfied, France smirks, and picks up his book again, leaving England flustered, embarrassed and annoyed. Even his embroidery won't help him relax now.


	17. Rememberance

England straightens out his tie in front of the mirror one more time, and stares at his reflection. Perhaps if he waists just a little bit longer… But no, it is his duty to remember. His and France's and Germany's and Canada's, and all of the others. It is their duty to remember because soon they will be the only ones who do truly remember.

He adjusts the poppy on his chest, sighs and then leaves. At the church he stands out as usual, not just because he looks young compared to the others, but also because his chest is completely bare and unadorned. It is not his place to accept medals for protecting those under his care.

As usual there are less of them than last year. England remembers the days when only a few could attend – and now to be one of so few. And some of them can barely recall their own name, let alone the long forgotten dead. Still, as he walks to sit beside them, one gives him a smart salute, and England smiles, salutes him back respectfully, and then squeezes his shoulder. Some of them are still clinging on at least. He sits between the veterans of World War One and Two, a young man on his own surrounded by old men and their families. But that is also his fate, to remain young while those around him wither and die. There will always be Nations, and they will always remember.

And he does. Through the service, England dwells on those who have died from the first to the last. From the young man blown up on the battlefield to the pretty lady shot for being a spy. He thinks of the freemen struck down at Battle, protecting their land, and of service men killed only last week in the current conflict. From kings to servants, England remembers them all, because someone has to. They died for him, whether it be with him or in lands far away. Whether it was to protect his lands from foreign invaders and cruel regimes or to ease paranoia and extend his influence. They died for him, and so no matter how the wars they had been involved in were remembers, England will remember them in honour.

He passes the service on automatic rising with the church and mumbling the hymns, and keeping his head bowed the rest of the time. As it ends, he lets his feet lead him the familiar walk towards the memorial and he watches his Queen and his Boss lay wreathes of poppies. When it is his turn, he kneels, ignoring the water that soaks through his trousers from the wet stone.

"Always in my heart; the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland remembers all those who have fallen in my service." He murmurs, echoing the words inscribed on the back of the wreath, the words he has always dedicated to them.

As he rises other men and women take his place one by one, laying down wreath after wreath until the white stone is covered in red, a bright and vivid remember of those lost. England salutes it one last time, and then allows his feet to lead him through the crowds of mourning men and women, though the churchyard and back out into the bustling streets of London. Although it seems normal, just a crisp autumn day, noticeable on most chests is a bright red poppy.

Fortunately France finds him before he wonders too far as his uniform on his young frame is drawing a few stares. He calls for the driver to stop as he stops him and jumps out to grab England, manhandling him into the car. England goes without a fight, letting France sit him down. France lays his hand over England's and the other blonde looks at him then slowly gives a small smile. Satisfied by that, France sits back until they reach England's house.

France stays until Sunday, and though they quickly start fighting again, England is glad for the company. He demands that France sleeps in the spare room, but he wakes up with stubble against his cheek and snores in his ear anyway. They almost fall into routine and for a few days England is able to forget. But on Sunday, France gently shakes him awake wearing that ridiculous blue and red uniform of his. For a moment, England forgets himself and panics, reaching under his pillow for his gun, but then he remembers that he war is over, and has been so for seventy years, and he collapses back into the mattress. When France prods him again a minute later. England glares at him, but does at least get up to lock France out of the room while he showers and dresses. Breakfast is a rushed, quiet affair: tea for England and coffee for France, and a slice of toast each to eat while it cools.

This time England stands out even more, accompanied by France. Blue and red are blindingly obvious in a sea of green and black, and England finds his cheeks colouring. He considers getting France to leave, but the git has as much right as anyone to mourn ad his presence is distracting if nothing else. Rather than spending the service in a daydream, England is fully aware and keeping an eye on the Nation beside him. But France behaves himself and keeps his hands to himself. His hand rests on the pew beside England's, almost but not quite touching, until England brings up the courage after a hymn to lay his over France's. France glances at him, smiles, and then takes his hand and squeezes softly. They remain like that for the rest of the service.

It turns out that France hasn't thought to prepare a wreath, and after quietly berating him in the back of church, England allows him to kneel with him to lay his second one. England feels a bit uneasy murmuring to the memorial with France listening, but he still does, and as he finishes, France pulls out a rose from… somewhere and lays it down on top.

"_The French Republic also honours those who have died, not only in defence of me, but at war with me also._"

England stares at him, and almost forgets to rise, but can't quite find the way to thank him, so once they're out of sight he smacks his arm instead and mumbles that he's an idiot.


End file.
